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User blog:Jaguar Satake/This thing I wrote about Jaguar like four years ago
It's horrible and makes zero sense, but keep in mind that I was 12 when I wrote this. :P He's 11 in this, so he makes some immature jokes. Fair warning. Jaguar Everyone underestimates me. They think I’m useless, destined to fail, and that I won’t survive. In fact, when I was a baby, the doctors said I wouldn’t survive for very long, four years at the most. But they were wrong. I’m eleven now, and I’m pretty sure I’m still alive. Alive and in middle school, also known as the torture chamber. And I’m not exaggerating when I say that. School hasn’t started yet, but I’ve been to the middle school before. In fifth grade we went on a so-called ‘field trip’ there. Field trips are supposed to be fun, but this one not only bored me to death, it also made me certain that I am going to die this year. If my breathing disorder doesn’t kill me first, middle school will. See, the middle school has about three levels. Not grade levels. Stories. Which means stairs. And I can’t go up or down stairs, at least not very quickly. My leg is permanently injured. It happened when I was a baby. So I was sleeping in my bedroom and my parents left the window open. A jaguar came in through the window and attacked me. It really messed up my leg so now I have a permanent limp. You’re probably wondering how a jaguar came in through my window. Allow me to explain. We used to live in the jungle, high in the treetops. There was a whole treetop city, and it was totally secret. Of course, jaguars know about it; all the animals do. Monkeys were always running around the platforms and into people’s houses. This one monkey even walked in on some guy while he was on the toilet. (Classic Jaguar humor . . .) Anyway, so now you know why a jaguar came into my bedroom. Ever since then, my parents have never left any windows open, even now that we live in the city. You might think I hate jaguars, but I don’t. The jaguar that injured my leg just made a mistake. It probably thought I was a monkey or something. If you’re wondering how I remember the jaguar attack, there’s really only one answer. Getting mauled by a jaguar is not something you forget very easily. That jaguar actually gave me my name. Before it attacked me, I was nameless. My parents weren’t sure what to call me. After the jaguar attack, though, they decided to name me after it for some reason. So my name is Jaguar. Honestly, I think my parents were going to name me that anyway. My family has this tradition of naming their kids after wild cats. I don’t know who started it - probably one of my crazy ancestors (and do not tell my grandfather I said that my ancestors are crazy). So far, no one’s broken the tradition. That’s because my grandfather is one of those grandfathers who’s obsessed with tradition and all that. He’s this really tough guy who should really think of a career as a drill sergeant. He thinks I’m useless and a mistake. He’s not the first to think that, though. Everyone does. But I’m used to it. I’ve put up with it my whole life. Anyway, about the family tradition. I’ll be the first to break it, mostly because I want to annoy my grandfather. In the future, if I ever get married and have kids, I’ll give them names like Coyote or Echo. Family tradition now shattered. You’re probably wondering why we have names like that. Trust me; you’ll find out later. Right now, I’m not doing anything interesting. I’m just staring at the ceiling of my room, wondering what torture is in store for tomorrow. Wondering if I’ll even be alive by the time school lets out. Yep. I said school hasn’t started yet. It’s starting tomorrow, though. So I may as well say my good-byes to all my friends. Oh. That’s right. I don’t have any friends. Hmmm….I wonder why…. Probably because everyone thinks I’m a freak. No, it can’t be that. ‘Disappointment’ might be a better word. Like I said, I’m not doing anything that would interest you right now. I guess I should probably describe myself to you. But before I do that, you’ve probably noticed that I use the word ‘probably’ a lot. I’m only eleven. Give me a break. I’m narrating this story. If you want to hear it, you have to put up with how I talk. Okay. So how I look. I’m tall and skinny (like, I can see my ribs), I have ocean blue eyes, black hair that sticks up all the time, and one of my legs (the left one) is kind of….twisted. But you only notice it if a) you’re standing right next to me or b) you’re me and you have to put up with a constant pain whenever you walk. Fine. I admit. I was exaggerating in that last sentence. My leg doesn’t hurt that bad. Only when I run. When I run (I usually don’t, what’s the point of tiring yourself out?), my leg feels like some samurai in full armor kicked me (and they wear steel boots, so getting kicked….not something you want to happen to you. Trust me; I’ve been kicked by a samurai before. He was aiming for my leg, but he hit me somewhere else, if you get what I mean). Do you have a good mental image of me right now? And by mental, I mean in your mind. Not crazy. Are we clear? Good. (If you don’t have a good image in your head, then that’s because I suck at imagery. That’s what people tell me. They say I suck at everything). You think you know all about me now? Trust me; you’re not even close. There’s something really important I didn’t tell you yet, and if this story is going to make sense, you need to know. But I’m warning you, it’s really hard to explain. Category:Blog posts